


A Case Study in Adulting: Clint Barton

by K_R_Closson



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Clint is a Disaster, Gen, Who thought letting him live on his own was a good idea, no the dog doesn't count
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-23 09:47:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8323237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_R_Closson/pseuds/K_R_Closson
Summary: Clint Barton is an adult. No, he is. And he's going to prove it to Kate by going grocery shopping before she gets back from her mission. It's two weeks. Even he can manage one trip to the grocery store in two weeks. Right?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to MarvelBang for putting all of this together, and thank you to my two wonderful artists, paleogymnast and Lets_Call_Me_Lily for decking the story out with some pretty sweet artwork.

 

“I’m worried about you,” Kate says, a far too solemn expression on her face.

“Between the two of us, I’m the adult,” Clint says, something he has to remind her of more than he should.

Sure, he enjoys wearing mismatched socks ( _no_ , it’s not because he keeps losing one of the matched pairs to the dryer), and sometimes he doesn’t read directions as carefully as he should (turns out there’s a _big_ difference between a teaspoon of salt and a tablespoon), and yes, he eats almost exclusively takeout (superheroing is hard, he shouldn't have to cook when he comes home after saving the world), but that doesn’t mean he’s _incompetent_.

“Fine,” Kate says with an eyeroll so extreme he’s afraid her eyes are going to roll right out of her head. “Prove it. I’m going away for two weeks. You apartment better still be standing, and your refridgerator better not be empty when I get back.”

Two weeks. That’s fourteen days. Clint can totally make it to the grocery store in that time frame. He can do complete recon and complete a mission in that time frame. He can do complete recon and complete a mission in _half_ that time frame.

“Is that an order, Hawkeye?” he asks, just because he wants to be sassed one last time before Kate abandons him for two weeks.

Well, really she’s leaving him from a team of younger (but not prettier) superheroes. Clint’s betting he looks better in spandex than any of them. Not that he’s thought about a spandex contest between him and the Young Avengers...Much.

He gets bored waiting to shoot people sometimes.

“Damn right it is,” Kate says, gruff, like she’s trying to imitate Fury.

“You gotta cover your eye when you do that,” Clint tells her.

“You knew who I was being anyways. I’ll work on my Hill impersonation while I’m gone. Or maybe Cap. You actually listen to Cap.”

“I listen to you,” Clint defends. “I promise the fridge will not be empty when you get back.”

“More than just takeout and beer,” Kate says. “And definitely no ordering a pizza and leaving it there in case you forget to go to the store.”

Clint doesn’t bother to point out that pizza wouldn’t last two weeks in his fridge. It’s his go-to food. He can eat it hot out of the box for dinner, cold for breakfast, or nuked in the microwave for lunch. And it covers all the food groups - bread, cheese, veggies, meat. It’s the best.

Now he wants pizza.

~*~

The way Kate was acting before she left would lead some people to the assumption that Clint doesn’t have any food in his apartment and that he doesn’t know how to take care of himself. Only the second one is true. Clint totally has food in the fridge.

He got a jar of pickles and a half thing of ketchup and he’s got three different kinds of takeout, and he’s even got the ingredients for pancakes which means he also has the ingredients for pancakes and eggs and that’s an entire meal on its own right there.

He jots a note to himself and tapes it to the fridge.

GO TO STORE BEFORE KATE GETS HOME

That should serve as a good reminder.

For today, he has plenty of food, and there’s no point in buying anything that’s going to go bad or that he’ll eat before she can get back and see what a good job he did.

“Come on, Lucky,” he says, snapping his fingers. “We’re going to the park.”

Lucky doesn’t bound over, leash clutched in his mouth so much as he meanders over for head pats and then whines when Clint clips his leash on.

“The park is fun,” Clint says. “There are birds to chase and sticks to run after.”

Lucky looks supremely unimpressed, but Clint’s been inspired to be a responsible adult and that means taking his dog to the park.

“We can get hot dogs on the way home,” Clint says, and Lucky yips, clearly on board with this part of the plan.

He would judge him, but Clint has a fondness for hot dog carts that might only be matched by his fondness for ice cream trucks. Sometimes he thinks buying an apartment building was the wrong way to go. He should’ve bought an ice cream truck. Maybe he still will. He’s got plenty of downtime between apartment maintenance and chasing off the tracksuit mafia and the Avengers and...okay, maybe the dreams of being an ice cream truck driver will have to be put on hold.

Retirement plan?

He’ll have to run that by Coulson next time he’s in SHIELD just to watch the _Barton why do you do this to me_ vein throb in his forehead.

They go to the dog park a couple blocks down the street, because Central Park is too far away and has too many people. Clint wants to be surrounded by dogs. He has friends; well, he’s got Kate and Natasha and kinda the Avengers, but Lucky doesn’t have anyone.

Do dogs need dog friends?

Should he get another dog?

Set up dog playdates?

Clint sits down on one of the benches in the fenced in area and unclips Lucky’s leash. He sits at Clint’s feet and looks around at the trees that break up the packed dirt that makes up most of the park’s surface. Clint wonders if they were planted so the dogs would have somewhere to pee. Wouldn’t that be a fun job - planting trees for dogs to piss on.

That might go on the potential retirement plan list.

“You can go play,” Clint tells Lucky.

Lucky looks over at the two yippy dogs that are chasing each other in circles and lies down, resting his head on Clint’s feet.

“Or you can nap,” Clint says.

Ten minutes later, Clint pulls a tennis ball out of his pocket. “Wanna fetch?” he asks.

He tosses the ball and it goes rolling down towards one of the big trees. Lucky doesn’t even lift his head to track its movement.

“Okay then,” Clint says.

Note to self: boomerang arrows are far superior to tennis balls because they’re better at coming back to him.

One of the yippy dogs come bounding over with the tennis ball, and he obediently drops the ball at Clint’s feet.

“Huh,” Clint says. “You want to play?”

He picks the ball up (second note to self: boomerangs are also superior because they come back with less slobber) and throws it again. The dog tears after it, and Lucky makes a low growl in the back of his throat.

“You’re the one who didn’t want to play,” Clint reminds him. “You’re not allowed to get jealous.”

Lucky responds by jumping onto the bench and then planting himself on Clint’s lap.

“Real mature,” Clint mutters.

Lucky drops his head to Clint’s shoulder and takes another nap.

~*~

~*~

They stop for hot dogs on the way back from the park, two bunless hot dogs for Lucky and three hot dogs for Clint - one with just ketchup, one with relish and mustard, and a third with chili and cheese. What, variety is the spice of life. He’s a cultured guy with many interests.

He can’t decide which one he wants to eat first so he takes a bite of each.

“I don’t know why Kate’s all concerned about this grocery thing,” Clint says as they continue their way down the street. “It’s not like we’re starving. We eat. We just don’t cook. There isn’t anything wrong with that.”

Lucky doesn’t have a response to that.

Clint goes back to eating his hot dogs.

~*~

Clint knows himself which means he knows he’s going to forget to go to the store. He needs more than just a reminder.

He needs _a list_.

And to get a list he needs the right writing utensils.

He needs gel pens.

He doesn’t have any in the apartment so he goes down to the corner store to see if they have any. They don’t. They do have chew toys and he picks one up for Lucky, and he buys a pack of gum, and it isn’t until he’s back in his apartment that he realizes he was just at the store.

There was food there.

Food he could’ve bought.

This is why he needs a list.

But to have a list he needs gel pens.

He gets on the internet and orders a pack and then, because there’s no way he’s going to use up 24 gel pens on one grocery list he also orders some black paper so he can make cool gel pen doodles. He feels a little bit like the mouse in that book about cookies.

Ooh, now he wants cookies.

He’s going to put them on his list once he’s got his pens. Or maybe he should put cookie dough. Which would impress Kate more? She’d probably tell him that real adults make them from scratch, but that’s way more effort than Clint wants to put into cookies. Even sticking them in the oven is too much effort; maybe too much wait is better way to put it.

When he wants cookies, he wants cookies. He doesn’t want to have to wait for fifteen minutes for them to cook in the oven, and he definitely doesn’t want to have to make them and then wait for them to cook.

Bake?

Can you cook cookies?

Maybe they should be called bakies.

“I’m thinking Chinese tonight,” he tells Lucky, going on a search for his phone. Takeout only works if you can actually call the place. “One, it’ll mean leftovers for breakfast tomorrow. Two, I want cookies.”

Lucky looks up from his spot on the couch.

“I know, I know,” Clint says, “Fortune cookies and chocolate chip cookies aren’t the same thing, but they’re still cookies. It counts.”

Lucky continues to stare at him.

“I can’t go the store until I have my gel pens,” Clint says. “And I’m not going to starve myself until then. That defeats the purpose of proving that I’m an adult that can handle myself.”

Lucky drops his head back down to the couch.

Clint finds his cell phone buried under a pile of takeout flyers.

~*~

Wednesday night finds Clint’s stuffed into a suit and being forced to smile at people he should probably know but doesn’t. For the most part he tries to avoid SHIELD fundraisers (Avengers ones too for that matter) but he had pancakes for breakfast and leftover Chinese food for lunch, and he didn’t have any plans for dinner so when he got the reminder that there was a SHIELD thing he decided to show up.

The company is dreadful and the dress code is suffocating, but the food’s pretty good.

Clint’s polishing off this third plate of finger food when a man in a suit worth more than Clint’s apartment strides up to him, plucks a spinach quiche off his plate, and walks away.

“Hey,” Clint protests, too quiet to stir up a fuss. “That was my vegetable for the day.”

The guy keeps walking without any sign of hearing him, and Clint sighs and looks down at his plate - now minus one quiche.

“That’s what you’re upset about?”

Clint turns to the sound of the voice - a young woman in a stunning strapless dress.

“Uh,” Clint says intelligently.

In his defense, she has very pretty shoulders. Very pretty _bare_ shoulders.

“That you lost your vegetable for the day and not that you were mistaken for a waiter?” she asks.

“Oh.” That. “Nah, I’ve been mistaken for worse.”

Like that time someone thought he was the Avengers’ intern. He’d been flattered that they thought he was in his twenties, but he hadn’t been appreciated being scolded for drinking the latte meant for Captain America.

There are downsides to not being one of the most recognizable Avengers.

“I’m Amelia Bancroft,” the woman says.

“Clint,” he tells her, taking her hand and bringing it up to his lips.

He grins as he does it, and she laughs, a blush dusting her cheeks when he lets go.

“My father dragged me here,” she says, looking around with a frown. “I think he wants to use me as an excuse to leave when he gets tired of mingling, but there’s not much to do in the meantime. I kind of thought this would be more exciting.”

If her dad is here then the name Bancroft should mean something to him. It doesn’t. It also means he shouldn’t flirt with her - her dad’s probably a big name donor - but she’s right, fundraisers are kind of boring, and they’re both consenting adults so he doesn’t see any problem in a bit of harmless flirting.

“This is the not-glamorous side of the business,” Clint says. “But the food’s not bad.”

“Neither is the company,” she says with a shy smile.

“My night’s certainly gotten better,” Clint tells her. “Can I get you something to eat? Or we could wander by the bar.”

“I’ve limited myself to one drink tonight,” she says, “and I think it’s a little too early to have it. Maybe a little later.”

“Ah, wholesome fun then,” Clint says and he reaches behind her ear and produces a quarter. “How do you feel about magic?”

She laughs and Clint’s about to disappear the coin when he spots Hill coming their way.

“I think my night’s about to take a turn for the worse,” he says.

He doesn’t know how he’s already managed to get himself into trouble, but he’s sure Hill will be happy to tell him. She’s wearing her serious face, the one she has when she lectures him on not swapping the junior agents’ ID cards so they get flagged as imposters or when he hides the coffee as if he didn’t spend hours coming up with the perfect clues for the scavenger hunt to find it.

Agent Hill strides towards them in her SHIELD issued combat suit.

Note how he doesn’t say catsuit even though that’s what the combat suits are and even though Clint himself wears one on missions (and rocks it, by the way). But Natasha’s smacked him upside the head every time he’s called it a catsuit and now that word has been eliminated from his vocabulary.

Well, the other day he was on the internet and found an entire website dedicated to putting housecats in tiny tuxedos. Obviously he forwarded it to Natasha.

She didn’t respond.

“Agent Barton,” Hill says, reaching them.

Amelia looks over at him, renewed interest in her eyes. “You’re an agent?”

“Guilty,” he says.

“I'm afraid he’s an on duty agent,” Hill says. “I’m going to need to take him away from you.”

“I’ll be here for a while,” Amelia tells him. “Come and see me if you get a break?”

“Of course,” Clint promises before Hill grabs him by the arm and drags him away.

“You’re ruining my agent cred,” Clint tells her once they’re out of Amelia’s earshot.

“Good,” Hill says. “That’s General Bancroft’s daughter. Under no circumstances are you to engage in any kind of relationship with her.”

“Does that include pen pals?” Clint asks, trying to look past Agent Hill to where Amelia’s looking awfully alone.

Hill steps into his line of sight. “No communication at all,” she says, “Verbal, written, other kinds. The last thing we need is a rift between SHIELD and the army, because you broke a general’s daughter’s heart.”

“Alright,” Clint says, because he does know how to be a team player.

Also, he’s terrible at relationships, and it’s probably best not to start one with a woman whose father controls enough weapons to make his life pretty miserable. Not that he’s assuming any kind of relationship will Amelia would end in disaster but; well, past experience speaks for itself.

Clint turns to go, but Agent Hill puts a hand on his arm.

“Not so fast,” she says. “Have you been paying attention to the news in Iowa?”

“Iowa?” Clint shakes his head. “I get my news by opening my door in the morning and listening to my neighbors shout at each other.”

Which reminds him, Alexa and Bridget are having some sort of feud over parking. He needs to avoid both of them until they’ve gotten it figured out.

Hill doesn’t look impressed with him, but she never looks impressed with him. “You don’t know anything about a petition going around to name you the state bird of Iowa?”

“Me?” Clint asks. “I mean I’m flattered, and it certainly makes sense, because Iowa is the Hawkeye state, and I am a Hawkeye, but personally, I think I would nominate Kate for the state mascot. I look better in heels, but she’s a better role model.”

“Agent Coulson traced the petition back to you,” Hill says.

Oh. Awkward.

Time to switch tracks. “Is that really what SHIELD’s top agents are spending their time and money on? Because I was just about to chat with a very nice gentleman about what this fundraiser was for, and I’d hate to lie to him about us trying to buy a new jet.”

Hill rubs her eyes and that must be some sort of sign or something, because a junior agent appears at her side, a biodegradable takeout container in his hands. The top has Stark’s logo proudly splashed across it.

“Here,” Hill says as the new agent hands the container over. “Consider your SHIELD duty for the night complete.”

“I’m really good at schmoozing,” Clint says, even as he takes the container and peeks inside.

It’s filled to the brim with appetizers. Clint’s pretty sure the caterers called them hors devours or something like that, but Clint only speaks foreign languages on missions and with Natasha. They’re appetizers. Or finger foods which, really, are the best foods. And anyone special (like him) can turn any food into a finger food.

Now he wants chicken fingers.

“Go,” Hill says. “I’ll make it an order if I have to.”

“I’m going, I’m going,” Clint says. “I’m hurt though. It feels like you don’t want me here.”

“It’s because I don’t,” Hil says. “Last SHIELD fundraiser you were at you did a live demonstration of your new arrows.”

“I wanted them to see what their money was going towards!” He was doing a service to SHIELD.

“You dropped through the roof and swung around saying ‘I’m Tarzan’.”

That was a good time. “Did you or did you not exceed fundraising goals for the night?”

Hill points towards the door. “ _Go_.”

Clint goes.

~*~

There are some advantages to being the Avenger who doesn’t get recognized on the street.

Amateur nights at the local strip club is one of them.

Clint knows about the Prancing Pony, because he’d been out for a walk with Lucky one night when when he came across a young woman who was being harassed by two very drunk men. They were waving money around and saying some impolite things, and the woman looked like she was on the brink of tears.

Clint doesn’t like drunks, creeps, or crying women so he intervened.

The night ended with the woman - Charlotte - cuddling with Lucky and an invitation for Clint to swing by the Prancing Pony sometime.

Clint went because the place was named after the inn in Lord of the Rings, and once a month they have a Lord of the Rings themed night. Clint’s gone back, because he might have a thing for Legolas taking off his clothes.

Also, amateur night.

The third Thursday of every month, the club hosts an ameteur night for people that want to audition for a job or who just want to mess around on a pole.

Or, for people like Clint, who own a pair of purple sequined booty shorts and don’t have anywhere to wear them.

He has a whole routine complete with (very necessary) hip thrusts and a lot of pole work, because he has the core strength to flip himself upside down, and he’s a bit of a show off.

Amateur night is the only night with a cover charge, the club keeping that money so they can let the performers keep their tips. Tonight’s an exceptionally successful night for Clint, and as soon as he gets off the stage he punches in a pizza order.

This is his tradition - show off, collect some money, and then buy all the strippers pizza.

It’s a good tradition.

“Dude, put some pants on,” Charlotte says when Clint wanders into the backroom. “Nobody wants to see that.”

Clint fans himself with his tips. “Lots of people wanted to see it.”

Joanie laughs and tosses Clint his sweatpants. “Whoever made those shorts should be forbidden from designing anything ever again.”

“They’re a national treasure,” Clint says, pulling his sweatpants on. He looks around. “No shirt?”

“No,” Joanie says. “The abs can stay.”

Clint preens and then has to dodge when Ricky throws a balled-up towel at his head. Ricky’s the one who does the Legolas bit, and Clint’s already volunteered himself as understudy in case Ricky gets sick the night of a performance.

When the pizza gets there, Clint hands over all the money he made in exchange for three pizzas and two orders of cinnamon sticks.

“Dude,” the delivery guy says, staring at the cash. “This is -”

“Enough for the order and a tip.”

A very _large_ tip, and the kid promptly shuts his mouth.

Clint brings the pizza into the backroom to a chorus of cheers.

“This is the most popular I’ve been all night,” he says.

“That’s because you finally have something I want,” Charlotte says, snatching a box of cinnamon sticks for herself.

“That hurts,” Clint says. “My pride is wounded.”

“It’ll bounce back soon enough. How long you staying tonight?”

“Til closing probably.” Clint perches himself on the table with a box of ham and pineapple pizza. He can’t get this kind at home, because Lucky’ll get into it and the pineapple makes him sick. “I don’t have any other plans.”

“Or friends,” Ricky adds.

Clint flicks a chunk of pineapple at him and hits him square in the forehead.

~*~

Clint doesn’t wake up until the sun is high in the sky, and he makes his way into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes and wishing he could’ve slept just a little bit longer.

He stayed at the Prancing Pony long enough to walk the girls to the subway, and he would’ve walked them all the way home except Charlotte said they’d be fine and Joanie had backed her up. He still got back to his own apartment pretty late, and there’s no pressing reason for him to be awake today.

He could’ve slept the whole day away instead of just the morning if the sun didn't feel the need to be so damn bright.

He grabs the eggs out of the fridge and sets them on the counter, because eggs sound like a good breakfast. Over easy eggs and he can make some toast and then he can dip the toast in the eggs, and it’ll be just like going to a diner. Just, instead of getting home fries to go along with it he’ll get the satisfaction of having provided for himself.

He turns on the wrong gas burner and doesn’t figure it out until he smells something wrong and realizes he’s managed to singe off half the arm hair on his left arm.

“Aww, no,” he says, turnings the stove off and deciding it’s probably best to leave open flame cooking alone until he’s a bit more awake.

He pops the toast in the toaster, because that’s as uncomplicated as it gets and then pokes at his arm to make sure he didn’t burn it. The skin’s pink, but it doesn’t hurt so that’s something at least.

He gets the peanut butter down from his cabinet and then there’s a knock on his door.

“Just a minute!” he calls, because the way this morning (afternoon) is going, if he doesn’t take his toast out now, he’ll burn it.

He gets his toast on a paper towel, slathers some peanut butter on then goes to answer his door.

It’s Caroline, an older woman who lives in the building. She has really cute grandchildren that come to visit every other week. Clint spends a lot of time fishing crayons and matchbox cars and other small toys out of the toilet when they’re around.

“I’m having trouble with my cabinets,” she says.

“Oh?” Clint asks.

“Whenever Roger -” (her son) -”comes over, he moves all my things around, and I can’t reach them. His wife got me a stool last Christmas, but my bones are fragile. If I fall off that thing I’m going to need a new hip.”

This, Clint can definitely help with. “I can come be tall,” he says, then, at her look, he amends it to, “I can balance on a footstool. Just let me finish my breakfast, and I’ll be right over.”

“Clint,” Caroline says with all the gravitas of her 74 years. “It’s one o’clock in the afternoon.”

“My lunch?” Clint offers, and he turns away from her patented ‘grandma is shaming you’ face just in time to see Lucky drag Clint’s toast from the counter and onto the floor.

“Well,” Clint says as Lucky proceeds to slobber all over his bounty. “I guess my schedule’s cleared up.”

“I was about to start making my lunch,” Caroline says. “You can join me for it. It’s just tomato soup and sandwiches.”

“Thanks,” Clint says.

He casts one last, forlorn look at his kitchen and then follows Caroline to her apartment.

“Roger’s thinking about buying a new car,” Caroline says as Clint begins removing everything from the top two shelves of the cabinets. “He wants one of those fancy convertibles. I told him he shouldn’t buy anything he can’t fit two carseats in. His wife told him they’ve better off putting the money towards college funds.”

“Midlife crisis?” Clint asks.

“I suppose so.” Caroline puts the soup on the stove and then pulls cheese, tomato, and ham out of the fridge. “You hit yours yet?”

“I don’t think so,” Clint says. “I mean, there could be an argument made for the whole superhero, jumping out of buildings thing, but I’ve been doing that since I was a kid. Maybe I’ve just had an ongoing life crisis.”

“Maybe,” Caroline agrees. “I haven’t seen you in a cast lately.”

“Trying to get injured less,” Clint says. “I get restless when I’m in casts. But I’m getting better at jumping out of a moving car and timing it so I only end up with a couple bruises.”

Caroline shakes her head. “Kids these days.”

~*~

Clint ends up clearing out all of Caroline’s cabinets and then rearranging them under her sharp eye until everything’s exactly where she wants it. After that they sit down to tomato soup and grilled cheese. It’s pretty good, and Clint wonders if he could learn to make it.

Heating up soup is like the most basic kind of cooking, and he can probably manage to melt some cheese between bread. The slices of fresh tomato and the ham might be a bit beyond him, though.

“Well,” Clint says once they’re done eating, and he’s washed their dishes and put them on the drying rack. “Thanks. Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

“I’m good for now,” Caroline tells him, “but Dottie told me yesterday she was having some trouble with her Thermostat.”

“Alright,” Clint says, “I’ll head down and see if I can help.”

Clint goes down the hall to Dottie’s apartment, and he fixes her Thermostat (she’d accidentally gotten it onto a preset) in exchange for some cookies.

She sends him to Ralph’s apartment, because “he’s too proud to ask for help himself” and Clint rearranges his living room furniture and they each have a cup of tea while Ralph tells Clint about what is was like growing up in New York City 50 years ago.

Clint’s at the stairwell when Chester comes barrelling down the hall, yipping at him and then Francine pokes her head out of her apartment.

“Oh, Clint,” she says. “Just the person I wanted to see. Chester needs to get out for a walk, but my arthritis is acting up today.”

“I can take him,” Clint says.

Francine gives him a brilliant, wrinkled smile before she goes to get Chester’s leash.

Francine sends him back to his apartment with a pre-made lasagna, and Clint eats nearly a third of it for dinner.

Today was a good day, he thinks as he and Lucky situate themselves on the couch for some evening television. He got to sleep in, he got to check-in with several of his tenants, and he got a solid lunch and dinner. Not to mention some really good cookies.

It’s kind of weird that all the older people on Floor 4 had problems all at once, and he swears he’s fixed Dottie’s Thermostat at least five times by now, but it’s not like it had been a hassle to fix. And as the landlord it’s his job to help out the people who live in his building.

He doesn’t want to be like the tracksuit mafia.

“And Kate thinks I’m bad with responsibility,” Clint says, stretching out across his couch. “I’m ace at this responsibility thing.”

Lucky doesn’t respond.

~*~

Saturday passes without incident and then it’s Sunday, and everyone knows that Sunday is the best day of the week, because Sunday means brunch.

Brunch is by far the best meal in existence, and there’s a diner Clint goes to every Sunday he’s able. It’s not that far a walk from his apartment, and three different waitresses smile and wave at him when he comes in.

“Hey Bella,” he says to the hostess, offering her up a giant smile.

The sun is out, and he’s about to eat brunch.

Today is going to be a good day.

“Hey Clint,” she says. “Glad to see you looking healthy.”

He tips his sunglasses up to rest on his head, because he doesn’t need them inside. “Good to be healthy.”

“No more jumping out of planes, right?” she asks, leading him back to his favorite booth. “I don’t want to be looking on the TV and seeing you plummeting to your death.”

“The Hulk catches me every time,” he says. “It’s nothing to get worried about.”

She whacks him lightly with a menu before handing it over. “Try to at least be a little careful,” she says before she goes back to her station.

Clint takes the time to look through his menu, because this is one of the few places he doesn’t have a standing order at. The diner has their regular breakfast specials and lunch specials, but they also have brunch specials. You pick an entree from a list of preapproved breakfast foods, an entree from a list of preapproved lunch foods, and then you get to pick a breakfast or lunch side and then to round it all off, you get dessert.

This is why brunch is the best.

Clint could get an omelet, a hot dog, and hash browns.

Or, he could get pancakes, country fried steak, and corn on the cob.

Or -

The possibilities are endless.

Kate refuses to come to brunch with him, because she doesn’t approve of mixing foods like this, but Clint doesn’t understand what’s wrong with a breakfast sandwich, a bacon burger, and mashed potatoes. It’s a breakfast sandwich, a lunch sandwich, and potatoes. How can you go wrong with any of those?

“Someone’s thinking hard,” Jaslene, one of his favorite waitresses says, coming over. “This should help.” She sets a cup of coffee down in front of him. “You need the whole pot today?”

“Not today,” Clint says.

Last time he was in here his arm was in a cast, and he walked head first into the closed door, because vicodin always makes him groggy. Jaslene had opened the door for him and then fussed non-stop his entire meal.

Drinking a whole pot of coffee had woken him up pretty well, but in the long run it turned out to be a Very Bad Choice. He almost broke his other arm when he got too amped up and started trying to do one-armed acrobatics in his living room.

“What’s good today?” Clint asks, scanning through the brunch menu.

“Bacon is always good,” Jaslene says, “and Charlie’s working the kitchen today so it’ll be crispy. The spaghetti’s always good.”

“Okay,” Clint says. “I’ll do the bacon cheeseburger with extra bacon, no lettuce, no tomato.”

Jaslene writes down his order but frowns at him.

He sighs. “And the breakfast parfait, extra fruit.”

She nods, approving. “Your side?”

“Tater tots,” he says, because you can’t ever go wrong with tots. “And, uh, I’ll get back to you on the dessert. If you’ve got a break coming up, maybe we can split it.”

Jaslene grins and pats his cheek. “Only for you, Clint.”

Clint takes a picture of his food when it arrives and sends it to Kate with the caption _BRUNCH_ and then he crops the picture to just show the parfait and sends it to Coulson. _Being a good agent_ , he texts.

He mixes his parfait together, frowning, because yogurt and granola isn’t his favorite, but at least there are plenty of strawberries and blueberries in it. Really what he wanted was a breakfast burrito (what a great invention, combining two fantastic things - breakfast and burritos) but he didn’t want Jaslene to shame him.

 _Never_ , Coulson texts back, _Where’s the rest of your meal?_

Clint’s should’ve known he’d get caught out. There’s a reason why Coulson’s one of the top agents in SHIELD.

 _Don’t know what you’re talking about_ , Clint answers.

He closes his eyes as he eats his parfait, even though sight has nothing to do with taste. He washes the taste of healthy food out of his mouth with his coffee and then he takes the proper time to appreciate his burger. It’s got an extra thick slice of cheddar cheese that’s melted over the burger, and at least three times as much bacon as is normal pressed into the cheese, and Clint takes a moment to just inhale before he takes his first bite.

Delicious.

Maybe he should learn how to make burgers.

Grills makes them for their cookouts, but Clint’s heard that you can make them at home too. Cooking can’t be too bad if it means burgers and bacon. Though maybe that’s a little too complicated for someone who still can’t manage eggs consistently.

And there are a lot of ways to make yourself sick with ground beef if you don’t prepare it properly.

Maybe he should leave the burger making to professionals.

But when he tries making grilled cheese he can make _bacon grilled cheese_.

He makes a note of that on his phone.

His gel pens need to hurry up and get here, because he’s actually excited about going to the store.

Maybe he should stop on the way home from brunch to pick up a few things. But what if he uses up all his enthusiasm on this trip and can’t muster up any for a second trip?

He should just wait for his pens.

Actually, he should probably look into why they’re not here yet.

Shipping shouldn’t take this long, should it?

~*~

Because Clint’s an idiot, he send his his gel pens to the Avengers Mansion instead of his apartment so Monday finds him headed over to the mansion to pick up his package.

“Special delivery for a special Avenger,” Tony says, lobbing the box at him when Clint steps into the hangout room.

Cap and Logan stop wrestling for the TV remote as Clint catches the box.

“Anything exciting?” Cap asks.

“Definitely if he sent it here instead of his apartment,” Logan says.

“It’s not a sex toy,” Clint says, because he _knows_ that’s where Logan’s mind went. “Tony, wanna toss me a knife or something?”

Logan sprouts his claws and Clint shrugs and tosses the box over to him, because that works too. Logan slices through the tape, and dumps the packing peanuts on Cap’s head and then frowns as a notebook and pack of gel pens fall out as well.

“This is _way_ more embarrassing than a sex toy,” Logan says, picking up the pens and frowning at them. “Are you a middle school girl?”

“Nope,” Clint says, vaulting over the couch to claim his prize. “Fully grown male, but thanks for asking.” He snatches both his pens and his notebook away. “I’m going to make a grocery list.”

Even Steve’s looking at him with concern now.

“Kate told me to stock up the fridge before she got home,” Clint says.

“Haven’t the Young Avengers been gone for almost a week?” Cap asks.

“I needed my gel pens before I could make the list,” Clint explains. He doesn’t know why they don’t get it. “Anyways, I’ve still got a week. I can totally do this.”

“What’re so special about gel pens?” Cap asks.

“Oh boy,” Tony says. “We about to give Cap a crash course in the 90s? Maybe we should watch _Zenon_ , see how well Disney’s imagined future matches up with the actual future.”

“Don’t knock _Zenon_ ,” Clint says, “It’s one of my favorite movies.”

“Of course it is,” Tony mutters.

“Anyways,” Clint says, scooching closer to Cap. “Gel pens are the _best_. They’re like pens, but with way cooler colors, and they show up best on skin or black paper.”

Clint opens up his notebook to the first page and rips it out before handing the rest of the notebook over to Cap. “Try it and see,” Clint says. “You’re into art and stuff, right?”

“I wonder if Lisa Frank is still a thing,” Tony says.

“It’s your stuff,” Cap says, trying to hand the notebook back.

“I’m making a grocery list,” Clint says, waving his one piece of paper. He pulls a purple gel pen out of the back because, duh. “And everyone should get to experience the joys of gel pens. They’re the bomb.”

“I’m going to gut you,” Logan threatens.

Clint laughs and writes out CLINT’S GROCERY LIST in big block letters across the top of his paper. Time to brainstorm. He definitely needs bread if he’s going to try grilled cheese which means he also needs bacon and cheese. What kind of cheese though?

“What cheese is best for grilled cheese?” he asks.

“Seriously?” Logan asks.

“Jarvis,” Tony says. “What kind of cheese is best for grilled cheese?”

There’s a long pause, like the AI is judging before he says, “It depends on the kind of sandwich you’re looking for.”

“The most basic,” Clint says. “I don’t want to get too fancy right out the gate.”

“Then I would recommend American or cheddar,” Jarvis says.

Clint writes down both with question marks next to them.

Grilled cheese isn’t enough on its own so he writes down chips and then pickles and then figures he should probably get something healthy. _Vegetables?_ gets added to the list then _fruit?_.

That’s eight different things on his list for just one meal.

Grocery shopping is fucking complicated.

 _Cereal_ , he writes down, because that’s easy and also simple, but cereal does mean _milk_ also goes on the list. Okay, he thinks, looking over his list. That covers breakfast and lunch for a week. Unless he eats more than one sandwich at lunch. How much bread comes in a bag? How hungry does he think he’s going to get?

Maybe he should just tear up the list and stick to takeout.

Much easier.

 _Spaghetti-Os_ he writes down and then _canned ravioli_ because you can’t go wrong with either of those. And Kate didn’t say anything about _what_ he put in his fridge and his pantry, just so long as it was edible. Maybe he’ll also get the Captain America themed chicken and stars.

Maybe he should petition Campbell’s to start a Hawkeye line of soup.

He makes a note of that in the top corner of his paper.

But what would make something Hawkeye soup? Obviously Cap’s got the chicken and stars because he’s the stars and stripes guy, and Tony’s got a line of Iron Man macaroni and cheese that instead of Spongebob characters or whatever has Iron Man’s mask.

Ooh, what about a toaster that toasts an arrow onto your bread? They have toasters to toast different sports logos so why not superhero logos? Or a waffle maker. He likes waffles better than toast. Or maybe a whole line of cookie cutters; bows and arrows, a dog, um, what else is special about him?

That reminds him _cookie dough_ gets put on the list.

“How hard is it to start a cookie cutter line?” Clint asks.

“What does that have to do with grocery shopping?” Logan asks.

“Plastic ones or the really high end ones?” Tony asks.

“Plastic.” Clint’s not a fancy guy.

“What shapes?”

“Bow, arrow, and maybe my head?” Clint asks. “What’d’you think?”

“I can’t believe this is an actual conversation we’re having,” Logan says.

“Says the man who has an entire knife collection named after him,” Clint says.

“Are you feeling left out?” Cap asks, looking up from his drawing. He’s got his serious face on.

“No,” Clint says. “I just think it’d be awesome to make cookies in the shapes of arrows. Dude, could you imagine how much fun it would be to throw them at people?”

“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” Cap says.

“It’s a great idea,” Clint says. He looks to Tony for help.

“The Hulk likes cookies,” Tony says. “And I’m always up for chaos. So that’s three votes yes, and the two old boring guys are two votes no. And since three is bigger than two, Hawkeye cookie cutters are a go.”

Clint punches his fist in the air. Victory for Team Fun.

“I hate to interrupt,” Jarvis says, “but I believe there is an army of flying, fire breathing pigs enroute to Boston.”

“Eh,” Tony says. “New York City’s better.”

“Tony,” Cap says, scolding, already on his feet and headed toward where they keep their combat uniforms.

“I’m not saying let it get destroyed,” Tony says, abandoning his tablet to follow Cap. “I’m just saying, if we dawdle a bit then maybe Fenway’ll get burned to the ground.”

“Fenway,” Clint says, scrambling after them. “You think if we save the city we’ll get free hot dogs?”

Now Cap’s giving _him_ the disappointed look which is ridiculous, because Clint’s on board with rescuing people whereas Tony just hates the Red Sox. Clint doesn’t really care about baseball unless he goes to a live game, because they’ve got much better concessions than football.

The four of them get suited up, and they pick Natasha up on the way.

“Catch me up,” Natasha says, sitting next to Clint in the cockpit.

“Mission or life?” Clint asks.

“Socializing is for after the fight,” Natasha says.

Mission then. “Flying, firebreathing pigs. They’re coming from the Atlantic which means there’s probably some kind of weird mad science laboratory either floating in the ocean or in the ocean. SHIELD’s got a team investigating that end. We’re dealing with the immediate threat. City’s trying to clear the harbor. If we can keep the fight on or above the water then we can minimize casualties.”

“I still vote for corralling them into Fenway,” Tony says.

Natasha frowns.

“He doesn’t like the Red Sox,” Clint explains. “I’m going to be on a rooftop, Cap’s gonna do this thing. Tony can fly obviously. You and Logan have some choices.”

“Oh goody,” Logan says, dry, with an accompanying eyeroll.

“We’ve got the prototype water shoes,” Clint says. “So you can walk on water.”

“How prototype we talking?” Logan asks.

“Um,” Tony says.

“Yeah, no,” Logan decides. “Next.”

“Long range guns and stick you on a building or the docks,” Cap says. “We’ve also got the jet skis or you can try the jet packs.”

“Jet packs?” Clint asks. How come no one’s told _him_ about those?

“ _No_ ,” everyone says at once.

Clint huffs. “It’s like you don’t want me to have any fun.”

“We’ll have Tony in the air, and from the sounds of it, Falcon will be joining us too,” Cap says. “I say the three of us spread out along the harbor and take out as many threats as we can before they reach the mainland but then fight on solid ground.”

“Sounds good to me,” Logan says. “I tend to sink in water.”

“I’ll keep the jet,” Natasha says. “See if I can help Falcon and Iron Man keep the intruders from making it to the mainland.”

“Alright,” Cap says. “We’ve got a plan.”

~*~

~*~

Clint gets dropped off on a rooftop with his bow, several extra quivers, a long range rifle, ammunition, and a pair of binoculars.

“I’m insulted by the gun,” he says, turning his comm on.

“It’s always good to have a back-up,” Agent Coulson says.

“Woah,” Clint says. “I didn’t know you were on this mission.”

“I’m the liaison between SHIELD and the Avengers,” Coulson says. “Of course I’m on this mission. I have Falcon, and we’re enroute to your location.”

“ETA?” Cap asks.

“Ten minutes,” Coulson answers. “Do you have visual on the threat yet?”

“Flying pigs,” Clint says, because apparently no one else wants to say it. “We’re fighting flying pigs.”

“That breathe fire,” Tony adds.

“ _Focus_ ,” Coulson says.

Clint picks up his binoculars and scans the sky. “I’ve got little pinpricks through the binoculars. My guess is those are our friends.”

He arranges his arrows into piles - regular arrows, armor piercing arrows, net arrows, and explosive arrows. Those will most likely be the most useful, and he wants to make sure they’re in easy reach. He adds electric arrows to the pile. He doesn’t think he’ll need the acid arrows today. But who knows, maybe he will.

He picks up his binoculars again. “Pinpricks are bigger now. Something is definitely incoming.”

“We’ll try not to end this before you get here,” Tony says. “Wouldn’t want to deprive Falcon of his fun.”

“Is this a bad time to ask if my wings are flammable?” Sam asks.

“At least the ocean’s there to cushion your fall if they are,” Clint says.

There’s a moment of silence on the comms.

“Remind me not to book _you_ as a motivational speaker,” Sam says.

Personally, Clint thought that was pretty comforting. Maybe Sam’s not as used to crashing into buildings or through windows or landing face first on the ground after diving off a fire escape. Clint’s more used to it than he’d like to be.

That’s the one problem with being a sniper - he’s always up high.

And he always ends up not being up high by the end of the fight.

~*~

Clint doesn’t know why he thought flying pigs would be pastel pink things with tiny fluffy wings - something you’d see as silly art or a restaurant’s logo, but he had.

The reality is much different.

These are potbelly pigs which means they’re at least 100 pounds, and that means giant, terrifying wings. These aren’t cute cartoon pigs. This is serious business.

“At least they’re not farm pigs,” Clint says. Sometimes the circus teamed up with a local state fair, and Clint’s seen pigs that are pushing 1000 pounds. He doesn’t want to see the wings it would take to keep those bad boys up in the air.

They come in _fast_ , and Clint can see the flash of Iron Man’s repulsors, and he can hear the jet’s guns, but Iron Man and Natasha can’t keep up with the sheer number of incoming targets so Clint gets his bow up and starts firing.

Regular arrows have no impact if they hit the skin, but an arrow through the eye takes one of the pigs down.

It squeals - a horrendous wail - as it falls to ground.

It hits the pavement and leaves a dent.

“City’s not going to want to foot that bill,” Clint says.

“Focus, Hawkeye,” Coulson says.

Clint focuses.

He abandons the regular arrows for now and fires off a net arrow.

It successfully captures the pig, tangling up its wings and sending it plummeting to the ground, but once it lands it just opens its mouth, burns away the netting and gets back up in the air.

Clint tries another net arrow, this time hitting a pig that’s still over the harbor.

Fire doesn’t work as well underwater.

Note to self: net arrows only on pigs over the water.

“Hawkeye, if you give us some warning, we can take the guys you ground out,” Cap says.

Oh, that works too.

“Sure thing, Cap. Several blubbery pigs coming your way.”

He shoots five out of the air, and doesn’t look to see how exactly Cap and Wolverine plan on dispatching him. He pulls an electric arrow out of his quiver. Time to see what this one does.

Predictably, it electrocutes the pig Clint hit.

Also predictability, it now smells like bacon.

Clint gags a little and reaches for an explosive arrow.

The electrocuted pig falls on someone’s parked car, crushing it beneath its weight.

“I’m not paying for that,” Clint says, already firing off another two arrows.

“They were illegally parked,” Wolverine says. “I’m not sure the city’s going to pay for it either.”

“Does insurance cover superhero damage?” Clint wonders.

“ _Focus_ ,” Coulson reminds them all.

Clint _is_ focusing. He’d much rather listen to his voice or his teammates’ voices than blaring car alarms or the shrieks of dying pigs.

Clint’s fumbling for his second quiver when three pigs turn their attention towards him, and he has a very bad realization.

“Pigs are pretty smart, right?” he asks.

“Maybe?” Cap says. “I’m a city boy.”

They’re in some kind of formation, and Clint shoots his first arrow, but they turn, shielding their eyes and other soft parts which means Clint’s arrow bounces harmlessly off their thick skin.

“Uh oh,” Clint says.

He gets another arrow ready, because supposedly these pigs breath fire which means at some point they have to -

He fires the arrow right into the left pig’s mouth, and it spirals down to the ground.

Okay.

One down, two to go.

He can do this.

He can totally do this.

The two remaining pigs open their mouths, and he gets off one arrow before he has to dive and roll out of the way of the third pig’s fire. His roll takes him to the edge of the building he’s on, and the last remaining pig flyings closer, fat jiggling, eyes hard, mouth opening again.

Clint has two options; jump off the building or -

“Here goes nothing,” he says and runs and leaps onto the pig’s back.

He grabs where the wings connect to its back, the only handhold he can find.

The pig grunts and bucks, trying to shake him off, but little does it know that Clint is a pro at the mechanical bull, and he doesn’t let himself get thrown off.

“Yee-haw,” Clint says.

“What did you do?” Coulson asks over the comms.

“I am on one of the pigs,” Clint says. “So, uh, be careful which ones you shoot?”

“We’re two minutes out,” Coulson says. “Try to hold on until then.”

Holding on isn’t the problem.

The problem is that pigs are fucking smart, and there are already three more headed towards him. He wonders what the chances of them being self-sacrificial are.

Two of the incoming pigs take a deep breath like they’re getting ready to spew fire everywhere which is 100% Clint’s cue to be somewhere else.

Only, he’s on top of a flying pig on the edge of Boston Harbor so he’s not exactly sure where he’s supposed to go.

“I’m not paying for whatever damage I’m about to cause,” Clint says before he pulls out his grappling hook arrow and fires it at the nearest building he sees. He leaps off the back of his pig just in time, because he can feel the heat at his back as he swings away, can hear the pig squeal, and the scent of burning pig flesh.

Ugh, Clint thinks, and then he smashes face-first into the side of a building.

“Ow,” he says.

He’s definitely going to have a headache later.

And, as it turns out, suspended from a building isn’t really any better of a position than riding a fire breathing pig, because the three pigs that had gone after him are still after him.

At least he can fire his bow while suspended from a building.

He takes one of the pigs out and then Cap’s shield clonks one in the head.

“Thanks, Cap,” Clint says, because now it’s just him and a spotted pig that looks really, really pissed off.

Clint rolls one way to avoid the pig’s fire then rolls the other way and wow, does glass heat up fast. He might have just burned his ass through his combat suit.

“Hawkeye’s in trouble,” Cap says over the comms. “I can’t get a clear shot. Anyone else close?”

“In trouble?” Clint asks, rolling away again. “I could do this all day, Cap.”

Dangling from a building and dodging fire breathing pigs is his idea of a good time. The pig, frustrated, stops trying to barbeque him and instead flies up until it can get the rope keeping Clint’s from splat between its teeth.

“Uh oh,” Clint says, looking up, because he can see where this is going. “I was kidding earlier. Hawkeye is definitely in trouble.”

“What? Oh,” Cap says just as the pig gets a good grip and then _pulls_.

It rips the grappling hook off its mooring, and suddenly Clint is airborne again, this time being carried by a murderous, vengeful pig.

“I’m on it,” Natasha says.

Normally, Clint’s all for flying, the more reckless the stunt the better, but this is not a normal situation. He’s dangling from the jaws of a flying pig, and its fellow pigs have realized they’ve got a captive, and they’re all converging on him.

He’s about to get roasted.

“They’re all pulling off,” Cap says.

“Am I being abducted?” Clint asks. “Is that what’s happening? I’m being carried back to the secret base?”

They’re over the water now, and Clint’s grateful that none of the pigs have tried to kill him yet, but he’s also concerned about that. He’s also concerned about that the fact that they’re in formation, flying in a box around him so none of the Avengers can easily reach him.

“I can take them all out,” Natasha says.

Which means taking Clint out too until he does something.

He looks at the carabiner that connects him to his rope and then looks down at the Atlantic Ocean.

Sometimes this superheroing thing really sucks.

“On three,” he says.

“Hawkeye, what are you doing?” Coulson demands.

“One,” Clint says.

“Two,” Natasha counts.

Clint unclips his carabiner and and falls. He knows he wants to go feet first or head first into the water, but the blast from whatever Natasha fired sends Clint tumbling head over foot, and he loses his balance, loses his awareness of what he is, and he smacks into the water.

He doesn’t remember much after that.

~*~

~*~

Clint wakes up in the hospital which isn’t that unusual for him after missions.

Coulson’s at his bedside, frowning, which is also par for the course.

“Ow,” Clint says, because that just about summarizes how he feels.

He feels like he went one-on-one with a steamroller and epically lost. He wants to close his eyes and go back to sleep until the pain is gone or at least more reasonable, but he’s awake now, and he doesn’t think he’ll get back to sleep without some help.

“Ow indeed,” Coulson says. “Between impacting the building and impacting the water you’ve sustained some injuries.”

Clint laughs but that hurts so he resolves not to do it again. He wonders if his injuries are mild enough that he hasn’t been given painkillers or extreme enough that the painkillers don’t really do much.

Knowing his luck, it’s the latter.

“Wilson tried to catch you,” Coulson says, “but the blast from Natasha’s weapons sent him careening in the other direction.”

“Did we win?”

Talking hurts, like his jaw is swollen or something. Clint tips his head back against his pillows.

“We did,” Coulson says. “The doctors say you should spend as much time healing as possible.”

“Drugs?” Clint guesses.

“You going to sit still and behave on your own?”

Even feeling like shit, Clint’s already planned three different ways to get out of this hospital room. If he had any hope of getting past Coulson, he would already be on his way home by now. But he’s not in any shape to be going anywhere, and he definitely doesn’t want to be stuck in this bed thinking about how he’s stuck in this bed so -

“Drugs,” Clint says.

~*~

The next time Clint wakes up it takes him a while to realize he has woken up.

Drugs, especially the good ones, make him float. They buffer him from his own body, buffer him from the pain, but they also make it hard for him to tell the difference between dreams and reality.

“Hospital?” he slurs.

“For a little bit longer,” Natasha says.

Clint doesn’t think she was here before. But she’s here now, perched in the chair next to his bed, red hair spilling down over her shoulders.

Like blood, he thinks, before realizing how morbid that is.

“Ugh,” he says.

“Your worst injuries are a couple cracked ribs,” Natasha tells him. “It’s why the doctors want to keep you here as long as possible. They’re afraid you’re going to make them worse if left to your own devices.”

Not entirely inaccurate but still annoying.

“Your worst looking injuries on the other hand.”

Natasha pulls back the sheet covering him, and Clint’s mouth falls open when he sees his legs. The entire front side of them - shins, thighs, they’re all bruised. He looks down at his arms. Bruised.

“Stomach too,” Natasha tells him. “Turns out hitting the water from the height you did isn’t good for you.”

“Well,” Clint says. He pulls his sheet back up.

“If I thought the fall would kill you I wouldn’t have made the shot,” Natasha says.

“I know.”

He and Natasha are infamous for going into missions without an extraction plan, for being the deadly duo, the two who’ll get impossible missions done. They’ve been working together for years, and they both know that completing a mission sometimes means getting your mission partner hurt.

Clint’s bruises will heal.

“SHIELD found the base and captured the scientist and confiscated his research,” Natasha tells him. “He thought people underestimated pigs, didn’t give them enough credit, and apparently had some sort of vendetta against the recent spike in popularity for bacon. He wanted to give pigs a chance to fight back.”

“Ugh,” Clint says.

“Exactly.” Natasha reaches out a hand to cover his. “The doctors say if you behave then you should be good enough to go to brunch on Sunday.”

That’s almost a whole week of being stuck in the hospital. He’s not sure anything is worth that.

“Brunch,” Natasha says again, because she knows the right things to bribe him with.

“Dirty pool,” he tells her.

She laughs and leans over to brush her lips over his forehead. “Sleep, Clint. We’ve got a date planned.”

Clint sleeps.

~*~

Clint spends the whole week resting and still somehow his two hour brunch with Natasha on Sunday takes up every bit of energy he has, and he falls asleep as soon as he’s on his bed in his apartment.

At least he didn’t have to go back to the hospital.

Or get discharged with a wheelchair.

He doesn’t think they’ve given him one since he kicked the last one into traffic.

Anyways, he falls asleep after brunch with Natasha - which was maybe thirty minutes of eating and an hour and a half of being fussed over by various waitresses - and he sleeps until he’s woken up by a shouted, “CLINTON FRANCIS BARTON!”

Clint groans and nudges Lucky, who took advantage of his sleepiness to jump into bed with him last night. “You go deal with it.”

Lucky noses under one of the pillows and doesn’t budge.

“Ugh,” Clint says.

He drags the blanket off the bed, both because he’s a little petty and because it’s easier to wrap himself up in his comforter than go looking for a sweatshirt.

Bonus, once he’s dealt with whatever Kate wants to talk about, all he has to do is tip over, and he’ll be ready to sleep again.

He shuffles into the kitchen, blinking against too much light, and sees Kate standing next to his island counter, a hand on her hip.

“Mm?” Clint asks.

She jabs a finger at the empty lasagna dish that somehow moved from the fridge to the counter.

“Oh,” he says. “I should probably return that. Do I wash it first?”

Kate throws her hands up in the air and then yanks his fridge door open. Now that the lasagna dish is gone, his fridge looks distressingly empty.

Right. He was supposed to do something this week.

“I can explain,” he says.

“It better be a good explanation,” she says.

“It started with needing gel pens,” he says, and Kate pulls out a chair and sits down.

Clint winds through the past two weeks - needing gel pens and not having them, ordering them, going to the store and forgetting to buy groceries (enforcing the fact that he needs a list), and he makes sure to tell her about his resourcefulness (he didn’t starve while she was gone) but then his story peters out around brunch (the first one).

“Alright,” Kate says, looking judgmental, but that’s not a new look for her. “That was the first week. What happened last week?”

“Uh,” Clint says. “Would you believe the near destruction of the of the Earth?”

Kate narrows her eyes.

“Um, how about two cops in a rowboat?”

Kate’s lips twitch like she wants to smile. “A+ reference but still not true.”

“How about flying, fire breathing pigs that descended on Boston Harbor?”

“Clint,” Kate begins, frustrated, but then Clint drops his blanket in his best ‘Grandma, it’s me, Anastasia’ impression, and Kate’s irritation immediately flips over to concern. “What did you do?”

“World’s worst bellyflop,” Clint says.

His entire chest and thighs are still bruised, and the bruising’s gone from the deep purple/red of a new bruise to the sickly green/yellow of a healing one, but it still looks bad. Still hurts too.

“That’s not funny,” Kate says.

“I’ve had worse,” Clint says. “I’m going to be fine. Unlike this.” He pokes at a folded piece of black paper on the counter. It’s crinkled from being soaked through with water and then dried out, and Clint’s afraid it’ll dissolve into little tiny pieces if he tries to open it. “That was my grocery list.”

“We’ll make a new one,” Kate says.

“My gel pens and notebook are still at the Mansion. I was there picking them up when we got the call.”

“We can pick them up tomorrow,” Kate says, “and then I’ll show you how to do online grocery ordering. They’ll deliver to your door. It’s like takeout except with fresh fruit.”

“Huh,” Clint says. That might actually work for him.

“Come on, Hawkeye,” Kate says, “Let’s go sit on the couch before you pass out and brain yourself on the counter, and I can tell you about _my_ adventures.”

“Deal,” Clint says, picking up his blanket and following her to the couch.

So, he might’ve failed to go grocery shopping, but he did manage to save the world. Or, at the very least Boston. And, in his book, that means it was a good two weeks.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for "A Case Study in Adulting" by K_R_Closson](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8322406) by [paleogymnast](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paleogymnast/pseuds/paleogymnast)




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